


High-Stakes

by transcryptidone



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, James Bond (Craig movies), Shooting Dogs (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Gambling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, School Shooting (Past), Survivor Guilt, Teen Pregnancy, Trauma, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:21:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29192217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transcryptidone/pseuds/transcryptidone
Summary: It started with Jean tutoring him. Mr. Christopher had asked what it would take to convince him and he'd saidmoney. He would never tell his teacher, but if he were asked now, he'd do it for free. He didn't expect to like Joe. He'd thought he could predict people and he'd thought the two of them couldn't be more different. Joe might be changing his mind...
Relationships: Le Chiffre (James Bond)/Joe Connor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is going to have some heavy stuff. Please check the tags, because I'll update them in an ongoing way as I figure out some of the pieces.

The sun hurts his eyes – one the slightest bit more than the other – as it glints off the first snow of the season. The snow had shown up too soon and is now left to melt too soon. There won’t be any picturesque Christmas for Jean and the rest of his classmates left behind on campus. It hardly matters to him. He’s not exactly the type for snowball fights and making snow angels. He'll do the same things and feel the same way as he has every year before. That might be the only consistency he knows.   
  
As he crosses the expanse of grass and does his best not to step in too many puddles of melted, ice-cold water, he won’t let himself shiver. It’s hardly the first time he’s felt the cold. Still, the air chatters behind disobedient teeth that nearly clatter against each other. That cold, dry chill threatens to seize his lungs and it’s habit that has him running his fingers over the inhaler in his pocket.  
  
_“Marie Motagoma speeds away!”  
_  
The voice cuts through the silence. The cold makes it seem louder – maybe because everyone else has enough sense to be inside. If anyone had asked him, he would have told them so. Unfortunately, no one asks for his opinions on things. They only ask what he can do for them.   
  
As Maria starts to make another lap around the field, he comes to stand next to Joe, who’s bundled up in layers of school uniform – the coat, the beanie, the scarf, the mittens. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are bright pink and when he breathes out, it takes the form of a cloud in the air. Joe rocks back and forth on his feet and rubs his mittened hands together.  
  
_“The crowd is going wild here,”_ Joe calls out. He cups his hands around his mouth and the mittens make sure his voice is muffled just as much as it’s amplified. Joe looks over at Jean and winks. He nudges him with his elbow and urges, _“Come on, the crowd is going wild!”_  
  
The clap of Jean’s hands is just as muffled by his lack of genuine enthusiasm as it is his gloves even though they’re thinner and more worn out than Joe's are. The celebratory shout that he knows Joe wants stays trapped and thuds in his chest like the pound of his heart.   
  
Even so, Joe still smiles and the sunlight glints of the white his teeth too. _“Thank you,”_ Joe calls out and keeps on _smiling_ as he does it. _“Thank you, crowd.”_  
  
Joe is everything Jean generally dislikes in people. He’s rich not only in wealth but in popularity and _cheeriness_. This isn’t the first time Jean has had to come and fetch him from doing a great many things, none of which were his _mathematics homework._ When Mr. Christopher had asked him what it would take to convince him to tutor Joe, Jean had said _money_. He wasn’t inclined to do _anything_ for free, especially not spend his spare time with the newest student in school who already was more beloved than almost anyone else. Jean had thought he could predict people – see their weaknesses and know what to expect – and he'd expected to dislike Joe.  
  
Maybe the problem there is Jean still can’t manage to predict _himself._  
  
_“Look, even the Albanian can’t stay away. There’s Jean,”_ Joe continues in his shouting and he places his hand on Jean’s shoulder rather roughly as he almost jumps in the air. Joe laughs in good humor as Jean tries to keep himself from being jostled. _“Yeah, practically hysterical excitement there,”_ Joe says with laughter punctuating his shouts. His arm wraps around Jean’s back and Joe _squeezes_ him close as he instructs, _“Wave!”  
_  
Jean ducks his head as he wonders if the pink of his cheeks can still be explained away by the cold. He tells himself he raises his hand to wave only because he knows Joe will just keep _insisting_. There’s not another good explanation for why his lips turn towards a smile.  
  
_“Who said he couldn’t smile?”_ Joe demands of his imaginary crowd. He extends the arm not around Jean’s shoulder to gesture with an open palm far and wide. _“I deny it. Was it someone else? Certainly wasn’t me.”  
_  
As Joe presses his hand to his chest, Jean might feel it as a _slam_ against his own ribcage. It’s times like these that remind him that he’d thought he’d always know people shallowly and simply – that way it wouldn’t be worth it to waste a breath or care on them. Jean doesn't usually let himself want anything but simple and shallow. He’d thought that would be true of Joe too.  
  
Marie’s pace slows as she makes the last of her many rounds and Joe asks much more quietly, “Is it that time again already, Jean?”   
  
Jean hums. “It is.”  
  
“No rest for the wicked, I suppose,” Joe says with a nod as he squints his eyes against the sun.

He pulls his arm away and leans forward as Marie approaches. Joe’s applauding intersperses with the slowing strikes of Marie’s feet against the ground. Though Jean can’t quite hear them, he can tell from the stuttering of her ribcage that her breaths are panting. By Jean's side, Joe laughs in a light and airy sort of way. Jean takes his inhaler out of his pocket and gives himself a puff.  
  
Even though the band that wraps around her hairline shows signs of damp sweat, Joe doesn’t hesitate to give Marie a pat on the shoulder once she's close enough. “Too bad we don’t have time to celebrate in our traditional fashion.”  
  
“The airport might be one of the worst places to have to be hungover,” Marie says, with that mix of serious and playful that she does so well. Jean isn’t in the habit of giving compliments but he has to give credit when it’s due. He's spent plenty of time studying shifts in expression and tone and knows when it's done well.  
  
“Another time then,” Joe concedes with the same ease he has in so many of his interactions with their peers, ease that Jean could never imagine himself mastering no matter how much he studies. Joe gives one more pat to her shoulder and says, “If I don’t see you before I leave on holiday, you have a good one, alright?”  
  
Marie looks at Joe’s hand with the same sort of careful surprise as Jean thinks he feels when Joe does it to him. She’s brave enough though to lay her hand on top of his as she says, “You too, Joe.”  
  
When she walks away, she’s already caught her breath again and there’s no hesitation or tiredness in her stride. The depth of her dark skin tone stands out against the dull, muted wintery landscape around her as she goes further and further into the distance.  
  
“That girl must run in her sleep,” Joe muses, _admires_.  
  
In some ways, Marie seems like one of many of Joe’s friends. In other ways, she seems like his best one. Jealousy should be beneath Jean. Internally, he’s objected to the feeling anytime he’s noticed it. And yet here it is showing up again where it isn't wanted when he finds himself wishing he could hear Joe talk about _him_ like that.   
  
“She has a crush on you,” Jean says.  
  
“What?” Joe asks as he scrunches his brows and looks off in the direction that Marie left in. “No.”  
  
Jean hums and takes a step in that same direction. They’ll need to head that way to get to the library. “I think so.”  
  
Joe sighs as he grabs his backpack and follows beside him. “Well, even if that was true, it’s probably just temporary,” Joe remarks. His voice sounds so much softer and quieter now in the way the cold air feels particularly still and particularly charged. “It will pass.”  
  
“Is that how that works?” Jean asks because that’s not how it’s been working for him. He keeps waiting for his…endearment towards Joe to fade, but it’s only seemed to grow the more Jean’s gotten to know him. Jean has prided himself on a steady hand and nerves that steel themselves more and more every day. Joe challenges that pride and doesn't even seem to have to try to do it.   
  
“So I’ve heard,” Joe says, betraying in his tone that he’s not quite sure himself.  
  
Jean tries to force the words to not seem strained, suspicious, or duplicitous as he says, “And if you’re wrong?”  
  
Joe gives one of those expressions that might be a smiling frown or a frowning smile, Jean’s not sure which. He knocks his shoulder against Jean’s, but that might also be an accident that comes from needing to slip past their peers exiting the building as they enter. “The problem with you is you never stop to smell the roses.”  
  
“The only roses here are your rose-colored glasses,” Jean argues and _that_ is something he can be sure of.  
  
He feels a telltale trickle at the corner of his eye. In careful, subtle movements, he takes a handkerchief out of the same pocket with his inhaler and dabs to soak up the blood. Joe doesn’t react. He hasn’t since the first time it happened around him. He just keeps walking and waving to whoever waves to him.  
  
They go to their usual spot towards the back of the library. It’s hidden away enough for Joe to not get too distracted by who is coming and going. Joe doesn’t need as much help as he used to. His last school seemed to teach him almost nothing he needed to know where mathematics was concerned, which is particularly unfortunate when the mathematics classes at their school can be quite rigorous. After all, that’s the only reason Jean goes to this school – or is _able_ to. His mathematical prowess is the reason they keep him around.   
  
Joe and Jean study together in companionable near-silence, punctuated by the scratch of pencils on paper and the turning of pages. Every so often, Joe might ask him a question. Sometimes it seems like he’s genuinely confused. Jean can see it in the furrow of his brow and the clench of his jaw. Other times, Joe seems to just want an excuse to not have to work at it for a little while.  
  
When Joe shuts his textbook with some sort of finality and sets aside his pencil as well, Jean tips his head and raises a brow. Joe’s laugh is an acknowledgment that his slacking off won’t go unnoticed. “You know,” he says as he touches his hand at Jean’s forearm this time. “I think I might manage to miss you during the holidays.”  
  
Jean ignores how something said so simply can make his heart pound in his chest. He doesn’t know if he could bear to say _me too_ but it proves almost impossible not to – _almost_. “I’ll miss getting paid,” he says instead because that’s almost as true.  
  
Jean would never tell his teacher, but if he were asked now, he'd do the tutoring for free. But that doesn’t mean he’d miss the money much less. He’s not sure if there will ever be a day when he feels like he has enough. Can anyone ever have too much safety? Too much security?  
  
“I hope you used some of that money to buy some gifts for the holiday,” Joe teases.  
  
Jean tips his head and drags his fingertip against the grain of wood on the table surface. He feels the rough ridges and edges the way he feels the edge of his teeth when he licks along his lips. “Not exactly.”  
  
“You don’t talk much about your home life,” Joe observes as his hand moves further down Jean’s forearm towards his hand.  
  
As much as Jean might want to appreciate that touch, a lack of familiarity and an excess of suspicion have him jerking away. “It’s impossible to talk about something that doesn’t exist.”  
  
“Oh,” Joe says. The word is so simply and plainly stated that it might feel like a condemnation, but then Joe is shifting in his seat towards him and suggesting, “You should join me.”  
  
Jean laughs bitterly. “I shouldn’t.”  
  
“It would be a shame to spend the holidays alone,” Joe suggests and it has the certainty and kindness of persistence. “I’m sure Mum wouldn’t mind.”  
  
Jean tries to imagine what _going home for the holidays_ might involve. He uses all his observations and expectations and finds what he projects is the image of Joe and his mother enjoying the holidays together as they’re used to, while Jean spends the holidays as he’s used to – alone even if there are others in the room.  
  
Joe’s hand reaches again and takes hold of Jean’s hand this time. His hold is firm, sure, and as sincere as the look in his eyes. Joe leans in closer until their little space at the back of the library narrows in around them and might make it seem like that great, big room has shrunken down to hold only the two of them. The earnestness of Joe’s voice seems to wrap around Jean too as he says, “I’d like it if you would.”  
  
Even though Joe leaves no space for it, Jean’s unease will always find a way to slip in through some cracks and fault lines. “I’ll think about it,” he says and that’s the best he can do.  
  
Agreeing to go to Joe’s would be a risk and Jean knows his risks need _calculating_. So, while Joe graciously gives him time to decide, Jean sneaks off campus. He waits until nighttime gives him some cover – though he’s sure there is more than one teacher who already knows that he does this and looks the other way.  
  
Finding his way to where he’s going is almost muscle memory, so much so that when he’s arrived at the door and knocked as he should, it’s difficult to really recall the trip. Although he knows where his two feet are, his lack of memory of it might make it hard to know whether he’d really done it or not. It's almost like how sometimes he finds himself wondering if he remembered locking the door of his dorm room at night and again when he leaves for class in the morning.  
  
The man who works at the door knows Jean well by now and lets him in easily. Beyond the door, there is the clinking of plastic chips against each other, the quiet rumble of hushed murmurs, and the voice of the dealer making his pronouncements. The casino is decorated expensively to encourage patrons that will risk a lot of money - and likely lose it.   
  
As Jean gets his usual amount of chips, an older man comes to watch over him. He’s the one who introduced Jean to this particular place and is particularly interested and invested in how well Jean fares each night.  
  
“Hello, Mr. White,” Jean greets as he always does.  
  
“Le Chiffre,” Mr. White greets back. “Nice to see you again.”  
  
“You as well,” Jean says politely and he feels Mr. White’s eyes on him on his way to the bar.

He knows the sharpness in Mr. White's gaze doesn't come from an objection to underage drinking. Although most others would likely say he shouldn't be, there are no qualms about a seventeen year-old drinking or gambling here. The first time he’d gone out gambling seemingly everyone in the casino tried to use his age to their advantage to bleed him dry. He’d taken all the winnings that night, as well as a black eye and a few bruises on his ribs because of it. Here at least they have enough honor to let him actually walk away with his money – well, _most of it_.  
  
As Jean receives his cards with practiced flicks of the dealer's wrist, he considers how he’s used to having to make challenging decisions, considering risk and reward. He would say he believed he was comfortable with it by now — _believed_. Joe’s offer makes him question that. As those around him call and fold, Jean finds himself distracted by thoughts of Joe and _the holidays_. 

In the end, it works in his favor that his fingers tap at his temple regardless of the cards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another WIP! I need to be stopped...
> 
> Also, I'm not sure if I'm good at conveying longing? I think I'm only good at angst, so sorry if the longing falls a little short. 
> 
> A big shout-out to Ary for helping me figure out this beloved ship! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Jean agrees to go home with Joe for the holidays based on the assumption that Joe’s mum wouldn’t have the enthusiasm Joe does. He finds himself face-to-face with the woman because, as it turned out, he’d assumed wrong. She’s waiting outside for them when they pull up to the end of the driveway. Joe had called her before they left campus, and apparently, she knew exactly how much time it would take them to arrive. She’s only wearing a cardigan over her dress and though her exhale condenses in the air, she hasn’t been outside long enough to shiver.  
  
Her dark brown hair is long enough to fall straight down to her shoulders but doesn’t get in the way when she smiles at Joe. There’s a softness in her eyes when she hugs her son as if there’s a part of her that _acutely_ remembers just how much she’d missed him. Joe laughs good-naturedly at how tightly she squeezes him. His smile has the same tinge of sadness that hers does when he pulls away.  
  
Joe coughs quietly as if to clear his throat as he turns towards Jean. “Mum,” he announces, gesturing to where Jean stands to the side, _lurking_. “This is Jean, the man who’s been making sure I pass Maths.”  
  
Jean’s spine straightens on reflex when the attention turns to him. He hasn’t seen a house as nice as this in a very long time. The stones leading up to the front steps look shiny and well maintained. It reminded him of the deconsecrated church orphanages that he grew up in or the pretentious school where the children constantly bullied him for wearing old, worn clothing and shoes. Jean walked cautiously up to the door, careful not to scruff the stones with his shoes.  
  
“Jean,” Joe says when he is close enough to rest a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “This is my mother, Vera Connor.”  
  
“Mrs. Connor, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jean says as he holds out his hand, a little stiff but passably polite. “Thank you for letting me be your guest.”  
  
“ _Of course,_ no one should have to be alone for the holidays,” Joe’s mum says with an abundance of effortless comfort. She pulls Jean into her arms, almost exactly like she had Joe. She keeps ahold of him as she says, “Well, no one should have to be alone at all.”  
  
“All right, Mum,” Joe teases as he playfully pries her hands away. “Maybe ask first to make sure Jean’s the _hugging type.”_  
  
Joe’s mum hums like she can hardly imagine how Jean _wouldn’t be_ , but she must have some recognition for how stiffly he’d held himself. He can’t say he’d really _returned_ the hug. She lets him go and shoos them both with her hands as she says, “Well, you better bring your baggage in.”  
  
Jean grabs the one bag he brought from the car and slings the strap over his shoulder. Joe takes out a few bags of his own: one for clean clothes, one with laundry, and one he says contains Christmas presents. He’s been particularly protective of that one.  
  
Through the front door, the house smells like everything Jean might have learned to associate with Christmas from the covers of holiday cards and commercials. But cards and commercials hardly compare with the time, dedication, and warmth found in Joe’s childhood home. It smells like freshly baked cookies, and no one ever having to go hungry. No one ever has to go cold with the ovens on and fires in the fireplace. No one shivers in bed at night without blankets to warm them and pillows to cushion weary heads.  
  
“Joe, love,” Mrs. Connor says after they’ve toed off their shoes and when Joe looks ready to climb the grand, wooden staircase. He pivots on his feet to look back at her, and she tugs her cardigan nervously as she says, “Your grandparents called earlier to invite us over for their Christmas party.”  
  
“They did,” Joe remarks, not a question. He nods and furrows his brow as he looks towards his shoes. “That means we’re going then.”  
  
“It’s an invitation,” she says, and that does actually sound like it could be a question though Jean can’t be sure exactly _how_ he knows that. Jean is again left to stand by, watch, and wonder if this is what ordinary families do. If Jean ever knew, he finds himself failing to remember now.  
  
“No,” Joe says in answer to the question Jean didn’t quite hear. His smile is tight and not quite right as he says, “We can go.”  
  
“Are you sure?” she asks.  
  
“Mum,” Joe says. He frowns slightly, ducks his head, and sticks his hands in his pocket, shrinking in on himself a bit.  
  
“All right, all right,” she concedes. The tension around her mouth betrays the lightness in her voice. She waves her hands to dismiss them upstairs. “I already pressed your clothes and laid them on your bed.”  
  
At the mention of pressed clothes, Jean is reminded that he’s not merely a fly on the wall. Presumably, wherever Joe’s been invited to go, Jean might also go. Maybe not, though. Maybe Jean will be left behind for that part. Given Joe’s hesitance to go himself, Jean’s not sure if that would be better.  
  
“Let me put my stuff down, and I’ll show you to your room,” Joe says once they reach the top of the stairs.  
  
Jean simply nods his head and follows along. He tries to absorb every detail from the grain of the wood beneath his feet and the garland that loops around the banister to the framed pictures that line the wall in the hallway. The photographs all seem to be of Joe and his mother together and separate at various ages. With each step down the hall, Joe gets older and older in each picture. In some, he’s missing teeth; in others, he has a sunburn. But, in each picture, Joe is smiling, and his hair is a curly mop on his head.  
  
The door that Joe opens doesn’t seem much different from any of the other ones. The picture right beside it has Joe with his arms around two others, sandwiched between a boy and a girl. They’re all smiling with satchels over their shoulders and books in their hands. They’re in front of a crowd of many others just like them – neat hair, nice clothes, without a care in the world.  
  
Joe’s room at home shows even more character than the one he shares with his roommate at school. Jean had seen it a couple of times when he needed to fetch Joe from there instead. It had shown Jean that if Joe’s affection for commentating wasn’t enough of a sign, there are other ways to know he has an appreciation for sports. Jean hardly knows anything about any of it, so he can’t discern any potential nuances. He’s a gambler, sure, but not on anything like racing or the outcomes of any matches. He won’t be found taking a risk on teamwork.   
  
There are more pictures of Joe and that boy and girl framed on the bedside table or stuck to the wall with tape. These seem a bit less staged now that they were within the confines of his room. A couple are candid. In one, neither Joe nor the girl look at the camera. They both have similar shades of brown hair, looking at each other as they hold bottles of beer. There’s another that might be from that same occasion. In it, Joe has one more button undone on his shirt as he sits next to the boy with straight, short, blonde hair, messy and damp with sweat. It’s a tribute to both of their handsomeness that they can both be caught by surprise and manage to still look _so handsome_.  
  
When Jean’s eyes have lingered too long, and he might risk jealousy, he looks away. On the bed, there’s a suit, tie, and jumper carefully laid out just like Joe’s mom had said. They rest on top of the garment bags they might usually live within. No wrinkles have snuck up while Joe’s mom wasn’t looking.  
  
The jealousy doesn’t fade; it just changes shade.  
  
Jean had won some money the other night at the casino – _some_ money, _not much_. He’d thought it might be enough to make it through the holidays. He might be able to pretend to fit into Joe’s world, even if just for a little while. But Joe’s suit alone might cost half of what Jean was allowed to keep of his winnings. In that moment, Jean might feel like he’ll never be able to make enough. Even if he’s impressed with what he has, it will always pale in comparison to someone else.   
  
“Hold on,” Joe says. He’s dropped his bags by the bed and hardly looks at the suit himself. “Just before we go.”  
  
Joe turns away to sift through his closet. Hangers clink against each other as Joe searches for what he’s looking for. When he turns around again, he holds out a collection of hangers with trousers and a jacket just as lovely as the ones on his bed – if still a bit wrinkled without Joe’s mom’s dutiful affection. On the top of the pile Joe holds out towards him, there is a gray, cable-knit, turtleneck jumper.  
  
Jean doesn’t immediately reach out to accept it all. Instead, he pulls out his inhaler to give himself a puff. When Joe notices, he steps closer. As soon as the inhaler has fallen from Jean’s lips and has gone back to his pocket like second nature, Joe catches his arm and repositions it out and open.  
  
“Here,” Joe says, his voice is as gentle as his movements. There’s no shove or pressure, or pity. Joe lays the fabric over Jean’s arm, not even like gifts but like they already _belonged_.   
  
As Jean brushes his hand across the knit, he can’t say he finds it as easy to believe that it could - or _should_ \- belong to him. He wants to shove it all away and throw the _charity_ on the ground. He recalls all the times he’s been given clothes. And he remembers the times when he hadn’t been and when he only had what would suffice – ratty clothes, too small, too short, but better than _nothing_. These likely won’t fit him exactly right, either. Joe is a little bit shorter and thinner, and these were tailored just for him.  
  
But just when Jean might do something _rash_ , Joe lays a hand on his shoulder. Something in his expression must betray his thoughts because Joe smiles kindly as he says, “I just had the idea that this would really suit you.”  
  
Just as quickly as he’d felt that flash of anger, Jean wishes it could be forgotten. He wishes neither he nor Joe had ever known he’d had a reaction at all. Shifting all attention away from it might be the closest thing, so all Jean says is: “Thanks.”  
  
Joe nods like it _is_ all so easily forgotten, and moving on is just like putting one foot in front of the other. Just like Joe said he would, he shows Jean to what will be his room for a little while. This room is just down the hall, though they don’t even really need to go back out into the hallway to get to it. It’s joined together with Joe’s by a shared bathroom complete with two sinks, a bathtub, and a closed off little area for the toilet.  
  
On the other side of the bathroom is a room just as nice as Joe’s, although less _lived in_. It’s clearly kept in a perpetual state of _readiness for a guest to come visit_. It’s so neat and tidy that Jean’s not sure if it was last used yesterday or years ago. It doesn’t have little memories from framed pictures. Instead, there’s stationary positioned _just right_ on the desk to encourage writing a letter home.  
  
Jean pushes it aside when he sits down once Joe leaves him to unpack. Jean’s staring at his bag still zipped on the floor. He flits his eyes towards the clothes he'd laid out on the bed _almost_ as nicely as Joe’s mom had done, and Jean feels the sting at his eye. He pulls a tissue from where it’s standing out of its box upright and at the ready. The tissue comes away stained with blood.   
  
Jean tosses the tissue in a little, perfectly empty trash can and uses the momentum to unzip at least one pocket of his bag. He pulls out the one chip he’s managed to keep. He’d slipped it into his pocket the last night at the last casino before Mr. White introduced him to his current one. There’s nothing special about this one, really, except that he has actually managed to keep it. He flips it between his fingers as he sits at the desk and lets himself get lost in planning his next moves – or several moves. _Always think several moves ahead._  
  
The chip might do its hundredth flip between his fingers by the time he decides which move he’ll make next.  
  
In the closet, there’s an iron and an ironing board; nothing left unconsidered. As he gets started rendering the suit jacket and trousers as perfectly wrinkle-free as Joe’s mom had done, he tries to make it as much of a distraction as the chip had been. Donning the trousers is just like wearing his uniform, so is the shirt he brought along. He assumes the jacket will be just the same. But then there’s the jumper…  
  
It’s soft to the touch in a way that can only be _expensive_. He runs his finger across the weaving curves in the fibers and wonders if it might feel something like the corkscrew curls of Joe’s hair. The fibers aren’t nearly long enough for him to run his fingers through, but the little hairs might give him a tease of it.  
  
Although he doesn’t feel the telltale prick or sting of tears of any kind, he takes care to bring the turtleneck over his head and avoid any chance of bloodstains being left on what once belonged to Joe. It’s a bit tight across the shoulders and around his arms. The sleeves might fall so short that it'll be better when his jacket is off if he just rolls them up. When he slips his arms into the jacket sleeves, he has to grip the jumper’s cuff carefully but firmly between his fingers. It slides high up on his wrist when he lets it go, but it’s still there.  
  
_“Boys!”_ Joe’s mom calls from downstairs.  
  
Jean checks his hair in the mirror above a dresser one last time and makes sure no bloody tears are trailing down his face. But his hair is smooth, and his face is clean. In the reflection, nothing’s out of place except for him.  
  
He makes sure his inhaler and handkerchief are in his pockets before he goes out into the hallway and down the stairs. Joe’s mom has changed her clothes into something nicer. She’s curled the ends of her hair and put a little more makeup on. Her dress is beautiful, of course. It looks like a much more sophisticated version of the kinds of dresses the women who sit with Mr. White usually wear – not the ones Mr. White hires but the ones who actually play cards. But Jean can tell that Mrs. Connor’s dress is the real deal and not the imitation.  
  
“Oh, Jean!” she says when she sees him. “You look so nice!”  
  
She touches along his shoulder, straightens his lapel, and tidies how the turtle neck sits on his throat. She doesn’t make a single comment or twitch her brow even though she must recognize that she’s seen these clothes before. She probably bought them herself for her son.  
  
“Thank you, Mrs. Connor,” Jean says as he politely steps away from her, sprucing.  
  
“You can call me Vera. No need to be so formal,” she says and the way she says it might be teasing. He’s not confident enough in his ability to be able to tell for sure. She picks her purse up from a table near the door, and there’s the little sound of metal clinking as she reaches in and pulls out a singular key. She holds it out for him as she says, “Let my home be your home.”  
  
Jean can hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs, not pounding and ill-mannered, but not nearly as careful or calculated as Jean’s had been. Jean takes the key from Joe’s mom, and he only realizes once his fingers are around the sharper edges of it that he was afraid of what Joe might think. He doesn’t know what that fear is about. He doesn’t have time to figure it out before Joe’s right beside him.  
  
The clothes that had been resting, lifeless on Joe’s bed have so much more personality now that he’s wearing them. They’re more fitted than the boxy shapes of the school uniform. The cut of his jacket highlights his shoulders and waist. The taper of his trousers shows the length and shape of his legs. His teeth seem whiter as he smiles – _impeccable_ – just like the rest of him.   
  
“I was right,” Joe says as he studies Jean from top to bottom. When both on solid ground, Joe’s a little shorter and looks up at him when their eyes connect. “It does suit you.”  
  
Jean feels a little speechless. He could say _thank you_. He could say _you too_. He could say _what suits me is yours_.  
  
“You both look wonderful,” Vera says, saving Jean from having to make his decision. “We’ll have to make sure to get pictures.”  
  
As they ride together to the party, Jean watches the landscape roll by. The drive is made longer by how spread out the homes become, sprawling chunks of land carved out with generous margins. As they step out of the car, Jean feels how he may _look_ the part but still doesn’t quite belong in the rest of the puzzle.  
  
Inside Joe’s grandparents’ house, everything seems to _glitter_ and _gleam_. Some of the sparkle comes from jewels and the ice in glasses that once held scotch and might soon again. Some of the shine comes from how everything has been so attentively polished and cleaned. It reminds Jean again of Joe’s bright white teeth and the two sharper ones that show when Joe smiles particularly wide. It makes Jean long to see that smile, and the longer he goes without seeing it, the more he notices its absence.  
  
Joe nods and smiles politely as people come up to him to make themselves known. He nods his head as they remind him how they’re supposed to know him – _I work with your grandfather; I met you once when you were just seven years old; your grandmother and I are in garden club together_. Joe just keeps nodding while Jean wonders whether Joe’s grandparents can _really_ know all the many people that mill through the numerous rooms in this great, big house.  
  
“It’s been a little while since I’ve last gotten to see you,” the latest one says. She’s an older woman, wrinkled and grayed with the years, but wearing clothes that were made just yesterday and might get discarded tomorrow. Jean’s not sure what it would take to win enough money to afford the jewels that glitter around her neck. That’s not even factoring in the ones in her earrings, bracelets, and rings.  
  
“A few years, I’d imagine,” Joe answers. It’s an answer he’s repeated a lot tonight. Jean’s been afforded the opportunity to pay attention to these things when no one bothers to pretend to want to engage him in conversation.  
  
“I’m _so glad_ to see you back at your grandparents’ parties,” she says _effusively_. She gushes like Joe is her prized pony. He wins the race whenever he’s in the running, so if he’s not running, she’s not _winning_ anything. She laughs at her own joke as she says, “You’ve always been such _good fun_.”  
  
It’s strange because Jean can remember Joe having fun when half-frozen out in the middle of a field or half-asleep over a textbook in a library, but Joe looks like he would have a hard time finding _fun_ here.  
  
“All that business with what happened is awful, of course,” she continues without either of them having to say anything. To add insult to injury, she only seems to say that part because she has to. She lays her hand lightly on Joe’s shoulder as all the lines in her face frown, and she laments, “But at least it reminds us that those small things shouldn’t matter.”  
  
Joe only hums and gives a smile that could just as easily be a grimace. His eyes look over towards an older man and woman on the other side of the room. Jean only knows those are Joe’s grandparents because he was told. They’ve yet to find it important to come over and make introductions, and it feels like bad etiquette to introduce himself. _The rich like their proximity to royalty._ They’ll be as reluctant to give up their airs and graces as they are any of the rest of their barriers and fortresses.   
  
Someday, he’ll have these kinds of people practically _giving_ their money to him.  
  
That thought might be one of the only things that make this party bearable. Meanwhile, there’s something about Joe that might make this party as unbearable as it is bearable. Joe is _different_. The cheeriness Jean once thought he’d _hate_ is absent, which gives Jean the uncomfortable sensation of _missing_ it. Joe’s moroseness seems paired with each piece of information doled out by party-goers without care. These partygoers aren’t so self-indulgent and careless as to actually _say_ as much, but through implications and pitying eyes, Jean feels like Joe’s cheeriness might be what’s sacrificed as he learns something _valuable_ about who Joe really is.  
  
There’s a man who apparently hunts with Joe’s grandfather. He’s grandstanding – even if only to an audience composed of Jean and Joe – and he’s extolling, having given Joe’s grandfather the advice that _not everything needs to be talked to death._ When the man laughs, it’s a big, thick, throaty thing that ends with a cough, and Joe chuckles too, though seemingly with a very different sense of humor.  
  
It’s then that Jean feels a thick almost-tear building at the corner of his eye, and he ducks his head to excuse himself elsewhere. He doesn’t need any of Joe’s grandparents’ many semi-acquaintances to think something sinister is going on. Joe doesn’t need to be thought of as the person responsible for bringing someone who cries blood near their priceless things.   
  
The room he ducks into happens to be the study Books fill every shelf of every bookcase along each of the walls. Jean wonders if it’s possible that all of these books have actually been read. The cozy-looking settee and wingback chairs invite one to sit back and lose themselves in a book.  
  
His eyes trail from perfectly plumped pillows on the settee before catching sight of a chess table by the window. His fingers walk themselves across alternating wood, and pearl squares on a large ornate box with flower-like arrangements of geometric shapes carved and painted into the wood. There’s a little gold handle, and in a drawer, he finds silver and bronze pieces. He runs his finger over a silver-plated knight and his horse.  
  
“Hiding from the crowd?”  
  
Jean spins around in surprise to see Joe standing there. Jean hadn’t even heard the door open – or _close_ – but there he is. He stands there like there’s nothing remarkable in the room. He stands there like he’s _the only_ remarkable thing in the room. His jacket is parted with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and he has a _real, actual smile_ on his face. It hadn’t been until now that Jean realized how much he forgot to cherish the sight the last time he’d seen it. Jean had somehow forgotten that everything – even Joe’s smile – could go away.  
  
Jean’s laugh could hardly be qualified as light-hearted – maybe self-deprecating if he’d bothered to devote the energy. Jean knocks over a bronze pawn with his fingers, and it makes a sharp, little sound when it collides with the mother-of-pearl. Jean looks at it instead as he says, “Maybe I’m deciding what to steal.”  
  
Joe’s hum is a quiet one. He takes another step into the room, but not towards Jean. He crosses over to a wooden desk that has a book on it that had looked more like a perpetually-open prop than a book someone actually read. There’s a soft thump as Joe shuts it closed. “What did you decide on?”  
  
Jean sets the pawn right-side-up again but doesn’t remove his hand. He keeps his hold on it as he turns towards Joe. He raises a brow and asks, “You don’t disapprove?”  
  
Joe spins a globe that Jean half expects to pop open to reveal a bar. Instead, the bottles of booze are hidden away in a cabinet Joe seems to know well based on how easily he finds it and how quickly he pours two drinks. “They can afford to lose a thing or two from time to time.”  
  
He watches Joe set the bottles back and hears as they clang. The cabinet door shuts a little too harshly as Joe shoves it closed with hands full. Jean accepts the drink when it’s offered. He swirls it once or twice to try to discern what it is and then decides he might as well drink it and find out.  
  
The alcohol has a certain bite – _whiskey_ – and Jean runs his tongue across his bottom lip. “No love lost,” he observes.  
  
“It sounds horrible,” Joe says with a sigh. He takes a sip of his drink and hides his wince in the bite of alcohol too. “But I guess so.”  
  
Joe drops down onto the couch without a care for how the fluffed pillows get squashed. He takes another sip of his drink as he settles in even further. He looks up at Jean as he pats his hand on the cushion next to him. “I’m not in a rush to go back,” he says. “Are you?”  
  
Jean wouldn’t have anything to rush back to. Everything he’s here for is sitting there on the settee. He takes his seat where Joe had instructed he should. Although the couch is certainly big enough, it brings him quite close. The alcohol seems to be hitting Jean faster than it should. He wants to blame how _dinner_ was in the form of tiny, singular bites of food that drifted around the room on platters from time to time.  
  
It starts as a warmth in his belly, and then there was the way that the world seemed to narrow in. Soon enough, he saw nothing but what was right in front of his eyes and every minute could have been either much faster or much shorter. It doesn’t help that the more he feels it, the more he drinks for a distraction, which of course, only adds fuel to the fire.  
  
Soon enough, all he sees is the alcohol-induced flush of Joe’s cheeks, and, in a momentary lapse in conversation, his thoughts are caught on one moment in particular. “Is your love easily lost?” he asks without having considered whether he really should.  
  
Joe tilts his head to rest his ear against his shoulder. His cheek smushes a bit into his frown as he says, “I’d like to think that’s not true.”  
  
Jean hums. He’d like to think so too. Though he’d have to _win_ Joe’s love first for that. Love. Jean blinks and inhales sharply at that thought. He takes out his inhaler and gives himself a puff. It helps, but there’s still an ache in his chest it can’t help with. Joe seems to feel it too as he sighs.  
  
“There was a Christmas party two years ago,” Joe tells him like a _once upon a time_ kind of story. “We’d gone every year. It was always the same. It would have been the same that year, too, I suppose.”  
  
Joe sets aside his empty class on a table that has decorative magazines and little knick-knacks. When he leans back he drags a hand through his hair. “But that year, I brought a guest with me – a special guest, the kind that holds your hand,” Joe says as he lets his hair fall free and curl against his forehead. He grips his hands together into one knotted fist. His laugh is bitter and sharp. _“Holding hands_. That’s what they got mad about. _Inappropriate,_ they’d said. Best kept in private, best kept far away from them. When it was only _inappropriate_ because my special guest had been a _he_.”  
  
Jean sits up and puts his glass on the table by Joe’s. He braces his elbows on his knees like Joe does too. “Now you’re back,” he observes.  
  
Joe’s laugh this time is a _scoff_ , but then he flinches. He smooths his hand across his face, this time to rid himself of the reaction. “There came a point where it would look worse for them to have me remain banished,” Joe remarks. “They might have started to look _small-minded.”_  
  
There had been distance in the telling of the story, but how Joe recites it makes him seem far away even if he still sits just as close. Jean looks down at his knee by Joe’s. He sees Joe’s thigh just beyond it. Some of the pieces come together from odds and ends so ungenerously given. Jean’s not sure if it’s the alcohol, but it still doesn’t seem to all fit.  
  
“They might think you’re my boyfriend too,” Joe says. His voice goes nearly as quiet as a whisper as he continues, “Sorry if that bothers you.”  
  
Jean stands up to peel away his jacket, _Joe’s jacket._ He folds it carefully to set aside. “Are you spending time with the poor orphan to rebel?”  
  
Joe tilts his head almost too fast for his eyes to keep up with. When he focuses his eyes on Jean, there’s confusion to be found there. “No?”  
  
Jean remembers to roll up his sleeves as he sits down again. “Then it doesn’t bother me.”  
  
Once he’s seated, their thighs press against each other more than before. He wants to put his hand to Joe’s thigh to test the strength of it. When Joe hums, Jean looks at his lips. He wants to get a taste of Joe. He wants to know what it’s like to taste the finest things in life.  
  
Joe licks his lips as Jean leans in. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t turn his head. He lets Jean come closer – and then Joe starts to lean in too. The kiss starts off sloppy, without familiarity to guide them and with alcohol to make them messier. They’re fast learners, though. They shift their shoulders, dip their heads, and relax their lips to align everything much better. Joe moans with what sounds like satisfaction. Jean’s groan might be something like that too.   
  
They pull in closer and curl in tighter. There’s no telling what stories the indents in the pillows might tell when they’re through. Jean’s hands fumble to loosen Joe’s tie and unbutton the little button at his throat. He slides his hand under Joe’s shirt collar and might feel the thudding of Joe’s heartbeat under his fingers. But that racing heart might also be his own.  
  
Jean kisses across Joe’s jaw and down his neck while Joe lets out little staccato pants and grunts that seem to be made just for Jean’s ears to hear. Jean’s breaths are rough in his chest and out through his throat. He buries his gasp in the hard press of his mouth against the sweat-damp skin of Joe’s neck.  
  
He kisses _long_ and _hard, longer and harder_ until when he pulls back it might make a wet sort of sound. Jean chuckles and then chuckles more as Joe shivers. “Would you like to go back to all those rich fuddy-duddies with a poor man’s mark?”  
  
“I would,” Joe sighs. As he shifts to lay deeper into the couch, he brings Jean along with him.  
  
The mark Jean leaves is red by the time he pulls his mouth away. It may very well be purple in the morning, though hopefully, they won’t run into any of these people then. It may very well be covered when Joe is buttoned up again, but at least Jean will know it’s there, and Joe will have let him.  
  
When Jean leans back to take a breath, Joe uses it as leverage to get the upper hand. This time he pushes down the neck of his jumper to expose Jean’s throat. “And you?” Joe asks. “What might they find underlying your surface?”  
  
Jean hums as Joe’s fingers hook themselves to keep the knit from creeping back up again. Jean only tips his head back further and looks at Joe through the squint of his eyes. “Maybe that will be our secret.”  
  
One of Joe’s fingers flicks out to press against the blood that’s rushing, hasty and hazy. His lips purse as he squints his eyes too as if somehow that might help him make better sense of what he sees. “I get the sense it’ll be one of many,” Joe says, wistful, resigned, and confused all at once.  
  
Jean’s emotions might have a similar convergence and conflict as he can’t decide if he’s more afraid or more pleased. “I do, too.”  
  
Joe leans in and presses his mouth to Jean’s throat, nipping at the flesh there. As he pulls skin between his lips and teeth, Jean knows what Joe gives him will be purple come morning too. He simply raises his hand to press to the back of Joe’s head to encourage him and revels in the fact that Joe’s hair is just as soft as he’d imagined. As he tangles his fingers in it, Jean knows it’s _better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [dontbevain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontbevain/pseuds/dontbevain) for beta-reading for me! (And for dealing with tech issues...)
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think. I always love to hear folks' thoughts, feelings, impressions, wants...


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